


He Puts His Pants on One Leg at a Time

by IdlePace



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: M/M, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 19:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2080863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdlePace/pseuds/IdlePace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even a pair of slacks can be alluring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Puts His Pants on One Leg at a Time

Clinging its greedy grip into the leg and refusing to let go: those covetous pair of slacks with its stitched along teeth encase its’ owners resilient legs. How he swum in the material, stretching the fabric at his bending joints and pushing it to the limits when his hips gave sass. The slacks tapered in every right way parading the owner around like the Queen’s diamond. Cutting off the ankles at exactly the perfect point, allowing no peep show of the tantalizing skin clothed underneath. Up and under it cupped every curve of the warm flesh, holding and never creasing. The gentle rustle of the pliable textile was the song of a muse filling the ears who worked closely with the drifting eyes, hungrily watching, laying their attention on the pair of slacks. Pockets were empty bar two cent coins in the front left pocket; anything trapped in the clothed sheath would be noticed for a form of any object would be hard to miss. 

Front button nestled neatly above the zipper with a teasingly bent fly corner seemed to coo at the rapacious eyes, practically inviting them to wonder their errant thoughts on how many times a day it’s clumsily popped open. The feel of fabric rubbed crudely along fingertips to dry off nervous dampness was something the eyes pondered on about. Aspiringly they did yearn to know the rare sound of the slacks giving up and collapsing to the ground. Precisely how they looked crumpled in a pile or the sound they made when tossed aggressively to the ground. When seized with demanding hands did the material focus more on keeping its threads together or more on concealing the heated body beneath? Were they accustomed to hovering mid-thigh, dangling above ground to defy gravity? The shifting with each change of muscle, each flick of pulse and each clench of flesh, all accompanied by the sensation of skin and coarse fabric. Could the slacks tell the difference when they were dressed with shaky hands compared to the familiar steady ones in the morning light? Did the belt loops feel abused from the extensive tugging they went through and did-

“Excuse me..?”

The eyes froze.

“Ridge, can you please stop staring? You’re starting to freak me out.”

“Oh… Sorry Xeph.”

Perhaps another time…


End file.
